


the fire between us

by firebreathing_bitchqueen



Series: a secret in an envelope [1]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Love Letters, Potential Spoilers, happy demo day y'all, if you haven't done N's route in the demo yet, spoilers for book 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebreathing_bitchqueen/pseuds/firebreathing_bitchqueen
Summary: **don't read if you haven't played the Book 3 demo (specifically N's route)! or do, but don't blame me when it spoils you**A continuation of a scene from the Book 3 demo (now out!). It is my firm belief that one Nathaniel Henry Sewell absolutely engages in sexting, he just does it via pen-and-paper (see companion piece, "let me be your motivation" for further context).
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: a secret in an envelope [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910140
Comments: 15
Kudos: 69
Collections: A series of familiar letters





	1. Dear Nate

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the number of times I said, "NA- _THANIEL_ ” out loud while playing all possible options of N's route in the Book 3 demo, here's some smutty love letters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holland slips a note in Nate's pocket.

_"I'll be thinking of you all day," he mumbles against my ear._

_"Hm, maybe work really can wait." I make to draw him closer, but he shifts back a step._

_He laughs at my crestfallen expression. "I won't be to blame for you being late."_

_"You're the one who started this!" I call as he begins to move away, walking backwards with an oh-too-enticing expression._

_He shrugs and pushes his hands into his pockets. "Then I hope you will think about how we can finish it._

\- from _The Wayhaven Chronicles, Book 3_ , by Mishka Jenkins (seraphinitegames): The First Demo; wide-released 4 September 2020 (released to patrons on 2 September 2020) via dashingdon.com

###

I make one brief detour before leaving the warehouse. Entering my room to grab my things, I pause to extract a pen and paper from my work bag. The best I can do paper-wise is the Leuchtturm I always have on hand, so I carefully rip a page from the notebook and start writing. When I’m finished a few moments later, I fold the note and slide it into the pocket of my jeans. If I’m quick – and lucky – enough, I should be able to pull this off and still make it to work close to on-time.

I step back out into the hallway, but instead of immediately heading outside to my car, I double back to the common room where we’d just been, already prepared with an excuse should I run into any of the vampires en route. Fortunately, I manage (for once) to be somewhat stealthy and not totally lost in moving through the warehouse. Even more fortunately, my hope that Nate had not yet retrieved his jacket appears not to have been misplaced: I spy the brown leather jacket still where he’d so carefully laid it across the back of one of the high-backed armchairs dotting the cozy room. Triumphantly, I slip the folded notebook page from my pocket (how very middle school, Holls) and place it into the side pocket of his jacket. Then, as quickly and quietly as I can, I make my way out of the warehouse and towards the beginning of my day.

Later, when he collects his jacket from the living room, Nate’s brow furrows first with confusion and then with pleased surprise as he unfolds the bit of paper that’s ended up secreted in his pocket.

When he reads the brief missive, he’s glad he opened it alone.

_Dear Nate,_

_In case you need some fodder for “thinking of me all day,” here are some ways I propose we finish what you started:_

_Instead of backing away, you push closer._

_Instead of putting your hands in your pockets, you slide them further up my shirt._

_We move into my room, let work wait, and you keep murmuring into my ear._

_Just some initial thoughts on how we finish it – I’m very open to your suggestions._

_Thinking of you (and of how you’re thinking of me)._

_xo,_

_H._


	2. Dear Holland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finding Holland's note, Nate pens a letter of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to the lovely humans on the Wayhaven Writers discord, who were willing to take a winding detour through stationery-land while I tried to determine what kind of ink Nate is most likely to use.

Somehow, I manage to make it through the day without falling asleep at my desk. I know they’re vampires and do their best work at night or whatever, but I have really got to find a long-term solution for working with them, working at the station, and also sometimes sleeping. Between their inhuman working hours (very clever, Holls) and my very busy nightmare schedule, I’m getting even less sleep than I might otherwise have.

Swallowing another yawn, I wave goodbye to the evening volunteer at the reception desk (Douglas having not even _pretended_ to sneak out two hours earlier) and head out to my car. Thank God I don’t live very far away, or I might be legitimately concerned about driving home on this little sleep. It probably wouldn’t be a good look for an alleged officer of the peace to crash her car in the town square.

My bone-deep exhaustion is momentarily forgotten, though, when I see the unassuming cream-colored envelope tucked in the weatherstripping seal of my driver’s side window. It’s small enough – and I’m tired enough – that I almost don’t register it as I reach for the door handle. 

I consider it for a confused moment before I remember the borderline obscene note I’d secreted away in Nate’s jacket hours ago. When I remember, I feel the tingly heat of a blush across my face. Maybe I can chalk that up to sleep deprivation, too.

I retrieve the envelope (sealed, thank God – the last thing I need is someone snooping around my car and reading it, especially knowing what _my_ note this morning had contained) and sit for a long moment in my car, turning it over in my hands and debating whether to open it now or wait until I’m safely ensconced in my apartment.

I decide I can’t wait that long and drag a nail under the sealed flap. Once I open it, I feel the earlier beginnings of a blush spark up with renewed vigor.

The paper is plush, elegant and, yet, understated, with the letters "NHS" embossed in small, neat script at the top. As I turn the page in my hands, run my thumb idly along the soft raw edge of the thick, fibrous paper of his stationery (of course he has bespoke stationery), the dull, coppery gleam of the delicate foil overlay in his initials catches the light through the car windows. Just as the sheet in my hand and its matching envelope before it, Nate's handwriting is lovely without being ostentatious or overly fussy, and I catch myself re-reading the salutation a few times before I take in the rest of the letter, admiring the neat, even lettering, the soft, subtle sheen of the black ink, running my fingertips across the indentation of my own name. It’s silly, and probably a result of too many fairy tales as a child, but I’ve always found an odd, quiet power in using someone’s name, a kind of magic quality to it; thinking of him thinking of me, of the sweep of his careful, deliberate lettering, my name, across the page rouses the seemingly ever-present butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach these past few months.

I shake myself from my reverie (I _really_ need sleep) and feel the renewed blush flood my entire face as I read on.

_My dearest, Holland,_

_And what is it you’d like me to murmur in your ear? I have some thoughts of my own, of course, but I’m very interested in learning yours._

_Shall I tell you how I wanted to make you more than a little late to work? How, if I’d given into temptation, you might have missed the entire day? Shall I tell you just how close I came to succumbing to that temptation, how great a temptation you are?_

_Would you want me to whisper how, since you left this morning, I haven’t been able to erase the feeling of your skin from my hands, from my mouth? How I imagined, as you suggested, letting myself explore further, finding out if you taste as good as you feel?_

_How in all the books, all the languages, all the_ years, _I’ve somehow never truly understood poetry until I met its faery-song corporeal in the honey-wild of your eyes – the manna dew of your lips?_

_My belle Dame, I am in your thrall – every thought, a thought of you._

_Nate_

And I thought _my_ note had been borderline obscene. This…somehow this blew past that borderline while still sounding like a Petrarchan sonnet or some noble expression of courtly love.

Which, actually, isn’t all that surprising, considering from whence the letter came.

It is several long moments before I feel collected enough to start the car and head towards my apartment, my face wine-stain red the whole drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the references in Nate's letter are inspired by (or flat-out quotes from) John Keats's poem "La Belle Dame sans Merci," and the wild-eyed, "full beautiful...faery's child" about whom Keats writes.


	3. Dear Nate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "[H]ere is another false start, and more waste of good writing-paper."   
>  \- from _The Moonstone_ , by Wilkie Collins.

When he finds it, he’s honestly not certain whether it’s the note’s contents or the creativity of its hiding place that is more beguiling.

He’d been puzzled, at first, when Agent Townsend handed him the book, doubling back at the end of their weekly team meeting at the warehouse to remark that she’d almost forgotten, but Holland had asked her to please return a book to him.

“She said she’s been meaning to drop it off with you for awhile now, but never managed to bring it with her when she was here,” Rebecca said, offhanded and unconcerned, which wasn’t too surprising: while Nate wasn’t necessarily _known_ for loaning out texts from Unit Bravo’s library (overwhelmingly his; overwhelmingly untrusted in the hands of, say, Felix), it was also not particularly remarkable that he might have loaned one to Holland.

What _was_ remarkable, though he didn’t – wouldn’t – mention it to Rebecca, was that he was positive that he didn’t actually own the book that was ostensibly being returned to him.

Still, he’d said thank you, he appreciated her bringing it back, et cetera. Excused himself to return it to its rightful place in the library, in the space left for it on one of the many shelves.

After excusing himself, though, he moved towards his room rather than the library. While he was reasonably certain he wouldn’t be disturbed in the library, he didn’t want to leave anything up to chance; the only explanation he could think of for the mysterious, spurious book return was that Holland had decided to respond to the note he’d left on her car a few days prior.

Once safely sequestered in his room, Nate sat on the end of his bed, turning the book over in his hands while he considered it.

_The Moonstone_ , by Wilkie Collins. The tome’s cover was unremarkable, bore no hint of its significance as far as he could tell, although it was a pretty edition: a crimson hardcover, with curling gold script and filigree along the spine. The cover was well maintained, he noticed, but nevertheless bore signs of wear and handling, as though it had been read several times.

When he realized why she would have chosen this book in particular, he smiled to himself. He didn’t own _The Moonstone_ , but of course he’d read it, as had virtually everyone else in the 19th century. First written as serial chapters in Charles Dickens’s literary magazine _All the Year Round_ , Collins’s novel was now considered one of the first examples of the modern detective novel. It was also part of the then-popular tradition in British literature of an epistolary novel.

Detective Holland Townsend had managed to find the perfect book through which to send him a secret letter. Clever.

Well: _presumably_ a secret letter. So far, all he had was the book.

He opened it, thumbing gently through the pages, although he didn’t expect anything obvious to fall out. She’d given it to her mother to pass along to him, so it was doubtful that she’d slide an obvious envelope among the pages.

As he flipped along the pages, though, he did catch a flash of neon pink a little over halfway through, and thumbed back until he found it again. There, on page 298, was a fluorescent pink Post-It note placed directly under the line, _“I think you have got a letter to give me.”_

His smile widened, and he smoothed a finger idly along the Post-It edge as he read her note.

_Dear Nate,_

_Thanks for the reading material. It was positively spine-tingling. Hopefully I can return the favor sometime soon. There’s nothing more spellbinding than a good book, is there?_

_Yours,_

_Holland_

He tilted his head, considering for a moment, before it dawned on him. As a detective, he supposed she couldn’t resist an air of mystery, could she?

Very gently, he opened the book halfway and lifted it, peering at the semicircle of space between the traditionally sewn binding and the actual flap of the book’s spine. He didn’t see anything at first, but then –

A slightly lighter shadow. Almost imperceptible.

He shook the book gently until the edge of a piece of paper protruded over the spine edge. He pulled it out, grinning to himself again at the lengths to which Holland had gone to continue their clandestine communications.

No torn scrap of notebook paper this time, he finds instead a small, light blue sheet of paper bearing the words “City of Wayhaven” in gold block text along the top, folded into a long, accordioned rectangle. Beneath it, Holland’s sprawling handwriting covers most of the page.

_Dear Nate,_

_Still trying to make me swoon, Agent? Because it’s working._

_Keats feels a bit like cheating, though. I mean – the man is one of the most significant figures of the Romantic period. It’s kind of in the name, isn’t it?_

_(Perhaps I shouldn’t judge. I sent you a mystery inside a detective novel written in letters. Bit on the nose, myself, hm?)_

_But I digress. You wanted to know some of my thoughts._

_I’m afraid I haven’t got your impressive ability to weave high poetry into my propositions, but I think I know some ways we could write poetry of our own. Ways we could make poetry out of each other, the warmth of your skin too exquisite for a mere twenty-six letters to articulate. Your mouth on mine tastes “like the poetry I wish I could write,” demanding its own new language to describe what you do to me, dreamwonder and marrowsong._

_How can I possibly be the great temptation when I live in a world that has you in it?_

_“It is such a pleasure to be / Not dead & walking through / This place with you.”_

_Ever (inarticulately) yours,_

_H._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing to shamelessly use the art of others to improve my love letters here. The poems quoted in Holland's letter are:
> 
> "the one who arrives after you," from _Milk and Honey_ , by Rupi Kaur, and
> 
> "Boundless," from _The Wish Book_ , by Alex Lemon. Alex Lemon is also responsible for the exquisite terms "dreamwonder" and "marrowsong."
> 
> Finally, _The Moonstone_ is indeed one of the earliest examples of what became the modern genre of detective novels, and is a prime example of Victorian epistolary writing. I couldn't resist the opportunity to let my dorky detective be her well-read yet irrepressibly uncool self.


	4. Dear Holland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pen is mightier than the sword, as they say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pulling triple duty: what started as prompt from @ejunkiet re: the origins of Nate’s smut pen turned into Chapter 4 of “the fire between us,” and then became the perfect fodder for Day 4 of the 31 Days of Wayhaven challenge, including strong coffee, strong feelings, and strongly suggestive letters.

The set had been a matter of practicality, really. Until they settled in Wayhaven, Unit Bravo had spent more time in transit than in any fixed location, and they’d all become rather used to living more or less out of suitcases (“oh my _god_ , like divorced-parents kids,” Holland had said once, when he’d mentioned it was nice to be settled in one place for more than a couple of weeks). Pared down the belongings kept on hand to those that traveled well, could be packed and transported efficiently. Nate had amassed a rather elaborate set of stationery and related paraphernalia over the years, but most of it had been stored alongside his considerable book collection until they’d moved into the warehouse and set up a kind of real home.

But before, when they’d been living in transit more often than not, he’d forfeited access to the full range of writing options in the name of practicality. It made solid, practical sense to purchase the travel desk set. And if it had been…not inexpensive, exactly, it was hardly extravagant, especially given how expensively some stationery aficionados outfitted their desks. By comparison, the Pineider set had been a great value. And if he’d succumbed to the temptation of the limited-edition _Doppler_ fountain pen (price…unimportant), well, then that could be considered nothing short of serendipitous.

Until recently, he’d almost forgotten about the pen, though, which was somewhat uncharacteristic. He’d bought it with the full intention of using it but had set it aside until he found the right time for the pen’s maiden voyage, as it were. The right letter, the right occasion, hadn’t crossed his desk or his path, and the more time passed, the less urgent an immediate use for the pen seemed.

In retrospect, this Lethe-wards passage of _la Doppler_ into the back of his mind could also be considered somewhat serendipitous. Or at least portentous: succumbing to that temptation had, apparently, only been foreshadowing for the other, greater temptations to come. Or, really, a host of temptations in one, all of which were housed in the small personage of Holland Townsend.

Not that she was responsible for the pen in question, of course. That had been well before she knew he existed, before he knew _she_ existed (although not before he had allowed himself to hope she did, even if he hadn’t known then for whom he hoped).

He’d never let a new purchase go unused for so long.

He’d never found an item so inadequate for its intended purpose.

Nate liked writing letters. He liked that they took time, intention, thought. The pen is mightier than the sword, as they say (although anytime he spoke the thought aloud, some — Adam — were quick to emphasize that “they” did not include _everyone_ ). Letters were a process of care, an elegance too often lost in the bustle of modernity.

And he had a certain talent for them, if he were being honest. Centuries of practice can improve one’s skill at almost anything.

Lately, though, he’d found himself…distracted.

He’d never found himself so at a loss for words.

The re-discovery of the Italian fountain pen, though, had brought with it a resurgence of many words. Temptations he no longer had reason to resist.

Pulling out a fresh sheet of plush letter paper, he gently lifted _la Doppler_ from its case, admiring the bronze satin titanium and rose gold trim that had tempted him to purchase it in the first place, before gently pressing nib to paper.

* * *

“Haley!” Holland groaned, flinging open the door to the bakery. “The coffee, please, the coffee. Maybe not even with water, I’ll just mainline the strongest thing you’ve got.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Haley laughed, already sliding a large paper cup across the counter towards her. “Saw you coming around the corner.”

Holland beamed. “Statues should be erected immediately in your honor.”

“Seriously,” she continued, deciding the caffeine and fresh espresso was worth the risk of burning the entire inside of her mouth, “Moses has nothing on you.”

“Moses?”

“Yeah, you know, the plagues of Egypt, let my people go, that whole thing?”

“You’re comparing serving coffee to the parting of the Red Sea?”

“Wasn’t that one of the plagues? Locusts, frogs, no coffee?”

“Must’ve missed that one at Passover.”

“Well, no coffee could kill me, and I’m a first-born. That was definitely on the list.”

“Aren’t you an only child? Oh! I just made scones, want one?”

“Ugh, I always forget you’ve known me my whole life. What flavor? You know what, never mind, I want it regardless. Maybe a box, actually? I’ll take some to Verda and Tina. Douglas might even get a scone today.”

Haley’s perpetually cheery face somehow looked even rosier as she laughed again and boxed up six scones. “Oh! _And_ ,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I have something else for you.”

“You already gave me my life’s blood _and_ chocolate, what else could I possibly ask of you before eight a.m.?”

“Wee-ell,” Somehow, Haley’s smile grew wider. “It’s not _actually_ from me, I’m more of the messenger in this scenario.”

“Messenger? For whom?”

“For someone with really good taste in stationery, apparently.”

Haley slid a bright pink bakery box across the counter, topped with an understated, increasingly familiar plush, ecru envelope. Holland felt her face flush as she thought of the last such envelope delivered to her.

“Someone who also bought you breakfast,” she continued, waving off Holland’s attempt to fish her wallet out of her bag.

Holland abandoned her wallet hunt and sighed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously! By the way, you and that box could be related. Don’t make me more jealous.”

Holland’s face grew warmer. “That Pavlov guy really knew what he was talking about, I guess.” She grinned and reached for the box, large coffee still clutched firmly in her free hand.

“Thank you, Haley!” She called over her shoulder as she elbowed the door open to step back onto the street.

“Don’t thank me, thank that tall drink of water who bought you breakfast!” Haley called, warm laughter following Holland out of the shop.

_No worries there_ , Holland thought, tucking the envelope securely into her messenger bag. She had a feeling this was meant to be opened in private.

* * *

_My most clandestine darling,_

_I hope you enjoyed (or are enjoying) your breakfast and the surprise, although I know despite Haley_ ' _s talent that no sweetness from her kitchen rivals that which you’ve given me. I admit, our recent reunion has reminded me that next time, I’d rather make you breakfast, to bring you coffee (and perhaps something stronger) in the grey-rose dawnlight._

_I have always loved letters. The tactile nature of them, the care in shaping each letter. The thrill of surprise when finding one in the mail — or elsewhere, such as between the pages of a book I don_ _’t own._

_The other thrills that follow upon discovery of the contents of said letter. Of thinking of ways to thrill you as you thrill me._

_I loved thinking of you writing the letter. The careful consideration of placement, the clues you left. Did the soft warmth of your mouth moisten the envelope? I want you to know I took the same care in my letter to you. Actually, I should tell you that this is the first letter — the first anything — I_ ' _ve written with this pen._

_Because I love letters, it won't surprise you to know that I value the materials used for constructing those letters. I’ll spare you all the details of its purchase, many years ago in Firenze; suffice it to say, I’ve had this pen for a long time. It’s a beautiful instrument, handcrafted, and I suppose in waiting for the “right moment” to use it, I’d quite forgotten it until now. Perhaps the pen knew to wait for this letter — to wait for you._

_As I write this, though, I admit I find my mind wandering. Imagining my hands touching not paper but your skin, feeling not the smooth metal of pen between my fingers but the soft gold of your hair. The flick of my tongue not awakening the seal of an envelope but the opening of you. Holland, the careful curl of ink around the letters of your name is a pale imitation of the way it curls in my mouth, the way you curl in my mind, no glide of ink on page as smooth or firm an inscription as the glide of my hands on you. You write of poetry and I think only of writing my own on your body (though not with a pen)._

_Each time I write to you I think of much better uses for my hands._

_Forever was never till now._

_Nate_


End file.
